


Whatever It Takes

by Rendered



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety, Brain Damage, But it's just a mess, Car Accidents, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Frequent updates, Friends to Lovers, Hospitalization, Introspection, M/M, Meant to be comedic, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Reflection, Slow Build, Unrequited Love, eventual angst, stutters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rendered/pseuds/Rendered
Summary: If one more person tells him he can cure his stutter by not stuttering, he's gonna scream.In which Tyler gets in a car crash, and his world is not quite the same afterwards.





	1. ł

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally something I wrote in an airport at 3 in the morning because I thought it was funny.
> 
> Also, I don't proofread. Sorryyyy.
> 
> If you can like, help me proofread let me know. I could use an editor. I despise editing. 
> 
> Okay. Cool.

He wakes up to the incessant beeping that one would typically associate with the generic sound of a hospital heart monitor. This causes him to force his tired eyes open and take in his surroundings. They're different than where he's sure he left off, and that scares him.

The walls are sterile white. There are unfamiliar sheets on his legs, a pillow under his head. Bandages wrap around the arm that currently rests atop the sheets, winding all the way down to his fingers. A quick glance around and he sees his bedside is crowded with people, two of whom sit in those shitty hospital chairs, and a nurse is trying in vain to get some of them to leave. At least, he thinks it's a nurse. He's not quite sure. Is he in the hospital? What happened to him?

The minute he opens his eyes a woman he recognises as his mother leans in. Her eyes are shiny and heavy bags line underneath. She must have gotten no sleep. 

“Oh, Tyler!” she cries out. “You're awake!” 

How astute.

Groggily, Tyler tries to sit up, is stopped by the woman he presumes is the nurse. “Lie back down,” she says soothingly. Then she turns around. “And all of you, please go sit in the waiting room. We only allow two visitors at a time-”

Tyler’s mother stands. “We’ll sit here if we want!” she says, and Tyler notices the rest of his siblings are there as well; looking tired, worn down, but each of them has a tiny smile for him when they see him awake. “This is my  _ son  _ here-”

At which point in time Tyler thinks it's appropriate to speak up, to avoid coming to a front and making a scene. “ _ Mom _ ,” he says loudly, and she proceeds to shush everyone even though no one is even speaking. They all wait with bated breath.

“Yes, honey?” She tries to reach for his injured hand, but he pulls it away. 

“S-stop f-f-fighting w-with her,” Tyler says tiredly.

His mother's jaw drops. His brother Zack stands, face pale, followed swiftly by Tyler's other siblings and his father, who looks at the nurse and demands to see the doctor. The nurse splutters. “I, I don't think-”

She doesn't get much farther, because a procession of Josephs surge through the double doors of Tyler's room as one, lead by Tyler's mother. After a stunned moment of silence the nurse takes off after them, heels clacking, an aggravated expression on her face.

Tyler sits there in shock, staring at the doors which swing back and forth.  _ What the hell just happened? _

His thoughts don't get much further, however, because there's a morphine drip attached to his arm. At this time it chooses to administer another dose. Within minutes his eyes are drooping closed and he's falling into a drug-induced stupor, eyes feeling heavy like cotton. He sleeps.  
  


When he wakes, he senses it's later. Sure enough, a quick glance out of the big paneled windows in his room show the full moon sending bright beams of light straight in his face. He wrinkles his nose and turns away.

His mother is back. She's rubbing his arm. “How are you feeling?” she whispers. 

Tyler's tongue feels like sandpaper. It's heavy and awkward in his mouth. “I'm f-fine,” he manages to get out. Then frowns, because that doesn't sound quite right. 

His mother sighs, worry etched on her face. She rubs his arm some more in soothing motions, her thumb circling his bandages. “Don't worry,” she says. “We’ll set you up with a therapist when you get discharged.”

_ A therapist? What for? _ Tyler reaches his other hand up out of the covers, rubs his head. He opens his mouth to ask his mother that same question when the doors swing open again and a man with a stethoscope around his neck and a huge beard enters. Tyler's father is not far behind, and he's  _ angry. _ His face is red, a vein pulses in his neck, visible to Tyler in the bed, and he's shouting. 

“Mr. Joseph, please stop yelling. This is a hospital-”

“Damn right it is! And I thought you lot were medical professionals? Why didn't you tell me my son is now mentally handicapped?” his father all but roars.

Tyler turns his head to face the new arrivals, scared.  _ Mentally handicapped? _ Does he have a brain injury? Is he crippled? A wave of nausea hits him and he tries to scoot up, wiggle his toes. If he's paralyzed he can't play basketball anymore, can't do  _ anything.  _ His mind flashes with images of wheelchairs, of ramps, and he feels like vomiting. 

The doctor places a conciliatory arm on his father's arm. “Mr. Joseph, we couldn't know until he fully awoke,” he says calmly. “Now please, there are other patients here trying to rest.”

His father squares his shoulders, but lowers his voice. “Fine,” he snapped. “But I'll tell you, this better be fixable.”

The doctor ignores him and turns to Tyler. “Hey, there,” he says kindly. “How are you doing? I'm Doctor Trebalt.” 

Tyler looks at him, confused. “F-fine,” he says. “W-what do you mean ‘m-mentally handicapped?”

The doctor looks troubled. “Tyler, you were in a car accident,” he says, and Tyler feels his heart clench. Seeing the look of worry on his face, the doctor pats his leg under the sheets. “It's okay. You didn't suffer any lasting harm. Your brother told me you play basketball, in a couple weeks you'll be up and ready to go again.”

Tyler breathes a sigh of relief. So everything is okay, then. But what about this supposed mental handicap? He frowns.

The doctor leans in. “Your arm was broken, but that's nothing a cast can't fix. All the kids at school will sign it, eh? You suffered a few minor lacerations on your legs and back, but they've been treated and will heal. Hopefully with the proper ointments we can even avoid scarring. The real issue was with your head.” Doctor Trebalt’s eyes shift up to Tyler's skull. “When the car crashed, you hit your head pretty hard. When you arrived here, you were out of it. When you woke up you threw up and complained of a headache. We're sure you have a minor concussion. However, you did suffer some minor head trauma. This is a very rare case, but you seem to have developed a minor speech impediment.” 

His father stands. “ _ Minor?”  _ he says. “He sounds like an absolute retard!”

“Chris!” Tyler's mother exclaims. She doesn't care so much about the slur, but about his raised voice. Flapping her hands, she shushes her husband. “Let the man speak.”

Doctor Trebalt sighs through his nose. “We're positive you'll make a full recovery, Tyler,” he says.

Tyler's head is reeling. He feels cold. His good hand clutches the sheets.  _ Oh, God.  _ His drugged-up mind didn't see the differences, but now he does. His eyes widen. “I h-have a s-stutter,” he chokes out.

“Affirmative,” says Doctor Trebalt. “It's unusual, but not unheard of. And oftentimes the stutter naturally heals itself through resting the mind and speech therapy. We think that when your concussion heals so will your stutter.” He smiles, but Tyler doesn't feel happy at all. Instead he just manages to lean to the side before he's throwing up, hurling the contents of his stomach all over the shiny white floor.

Doctor Trebalt lurches back to avoid the splatter. His father and mother surge forward. His mother rubs his back as he weakly wipes his mouth with a shaking hand, while his father glares at Trebalt.

“A side effect of the concussion,” the doctor says, worried. He calls in a nurse. “Get him some water then let him rest.” He beckons to the Josephs. “Let's discuss our options elsewhere, okay?” 

Reluctantly, Tyler's parents allow themselves to be lead out of the room. A nurse takes their place, cleaning the mess and handing Tyler a big glass of water. “Drink it up,” she says cheerfully. After one sip he pushes the glass away, not thirsty. When she presses him to drink it all, however, he does, if only to avoid another fight. She smiles at him, checks his drips, then leaves after assuring him he can always press the call button if he needs to.

Tyler curls up into the shitty hospital sheets and cries himself to sleep, already dreading the return to school.

*

The next couple weeks pass with a flurry of activities. He has a pass from school, but that doesn't mean he's inactive. When he's not being taken to the doctor's office for frequent checkups, he's being shuttled to speech therapy.  

He fucking hates it. An hour spent with a woman who drinks smelly tea and smiles in a way that sickens Tyler doesn't do anything to help him. Instead he spends an hour and a half of his life mortally embarrassing himself as he tries to stumble through the simplest of sentences. And, no surprise, under stress the stutter gets worse. 

The woman, who introduces herself as Rachel, is ever-patient, however. She smiles at Tyler and taps a page on a book they're reading. “Try one more time, Tyler,” she encourages. “You can do it.”

Eyes narrowed, Tyler stares at the page. It's a children’s book, and a simple sentence of Dr. Seuss’ simple prose stares back at him. It's a stupid sentence from that book about green eggs and ham, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut and shakes his head. 

Rachel simply smiles at him some more. He glares. She waits expectantly. 

Tyler glances at the clock. Five more minutes of this latest torture session, but he knows she won't let him go until he says it. Nor will his mother who waits outside in the waiting room, who is really adamant about her “retard son” fixing himself before he has to go back to school.

He opens his mouth. “‘I do n-not like gr-green eggs and ham.””

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Rachel, however, whoops. “You're getting there, Tyler, you're getting there!” 

He laughs, and is thankful he doesn't stutter with that. He's thankful for small mercies.

When his mother meets him she tries to get him to tell her how his session went. On the ride home, however, he doesn't speak, and then when his mother lets him inside the house he bolts up to his shared room. 

His brother Zack lies on his stomach in his bed, poring over a page of algebra homework, and he stares at Tyler strangely as Tyler goes to his bookshelf- something he hasn't touched since fourth grade- and pulls a plethora of books off the shelf, wildly casting them onto the floor in a haphazard pile.

“Hey, where are you going with those?” Zack asks curiously, following Tyler as he gathers up the books and runs down the stairs two at a time into the kitchen. Algebra homework forgotten, this is more interesting. 

No surprise, Tyler doesn't reply. He does open the lid of the trash can and hurl the stack of books inside before stomping back upstairs and slamming their bedroom door shut. 

Zack fishes into the trash can, pulls out a book. “Dr. Seuss?” he queries to his sister Maddy. He flips the book over. “‘ _Green Eggs and Ham.’”_ Sure enough, the silly cartoons of Seuss take up the cover. He shrugs. 

Maddy raises an eyebrow, eyes glued to her phone. “Hated that book as a kid,” she says, walking away.

*

His parents fight upstairs while Tyler's siblings are at school. Both of them have been on leave for the most part throughout Tyler's recovery, but now they're discussing the unthinkable: returning to everyday life. This means they'll go back to being productive members of society, and Tyler will have to go back to school.

He shudders at the thought.

His stutter, if anything, has gotten worse. And Rachel remains stupidly optimistic.

Tyler's father's voice heightens to a yell that Tyler can even hear through his headphones as they pump obscenely loud music into his ears.

“-can't shelter him forever! As much as I hate this, it looks like he's going to be stuck with this for a while-”

“-you stupid? He can't go back to school yet, he's still-”

His father again, sounding exasperated. “-majority of his physical wounds have healed, he can't keep on missing out on his education.”

He can hear his mother stamp her foot. “Chris, he's not ready,” she insists. 

“Lower your voice,” he orders, never mind that he was the first to incite their yelling argument.

Their voices dwindle to whispers that Tyler can no longer hear. He watches an ant crawl on Zack’s side of the room, curling up on his bedspread. Though the music is hurting his ears he makes no move to turn it down.

Eventually, as he knew they would, his parents both enter the room. Having come to a resolution, they each send glares at each other before his mother seats herself. The bed dips under her weight. She reaches out, rubbing his shoulder and popping out one of his earbuds. 

“Hey, Ty-Guy. Your father and I were talking, and we think it's time you went back to school.”

He expected this, but the thought of school still fills him with anxiety. His tummy flutters as he imagines all the kids laughing. Oh, God, he's in choir. What a joke that will be. 

He wants to cry again. 

Instead, he nods ever so slightly, face still buried in his pillow. 

His mother looks relieved. His father exhales. Clearly they thought convincing him would be harder. “How does tomorrow sound?” she asks him.

He closes his eyes in response, lifts his hand in a gesture that clearly says  _ give my earbud back. _

She doesn't. Instead she counter gestures. “Take the other one out of your ear, we're talking to you.” Her hand leaves his shoulder, reaching, grabbing.

He rolls onto his back and lies on the cord, not surrendering in the slightest. She sighs in frustration. “Tyler, we're only doing what's best for you,” she tries. 

He doesn't speak. 

His mother gets frustrated. “Oh, won't you say something?” she cries out. 

He won't. 

His father steps forward. “Kiddo, we really do think you'll be fine tomorrow.”

Of course they can say that. After all, neither of them is “mentally handicapped.” When you're a young child, your stutter is cute. When you're a high school sophomore, you might as well paint a target on your back and patiently wait for someone to kick you around.

He doesn't want to fight them over something he knows is inevitable, so he just nods. Then waves his hand in an unmistakable “go away, I'm done with you” gesture. 

His mother opens her mouth, but his father shoots her a warning look. “I'll call you down when dinner’s ready. Set your alarm clock, okay?"

Okay.

They leave.

Tyler rolls over onto his side and tries to pretend his world isn't falling down around him.

*

He holds firm to the belief that seven-thirty is too early for school, so when his alarm clock goes off at six-thirty he groans, outstretching a hand and slamming it onto the snooze button.

Across the room, Zack pulls his pillow around his ears and kicks the sheets off of his legs. “Is it seriously time to get up?” he whines. Then his eyes shoot open and he stares at his abandoned math homework, which currently resides in a heap upon the carpet. “Ah, shit. Forgot my fucking homework last night."

Which, of course, is entirely Zack’s fault. He's a huge procrastinator, and evidently  _ Halo _ matters more to him than good grades. Tyler is exactly the opposite, but he understands his brother's plight. 

His mother pops her head in as they both pull various items of clothing out of their respective drawers. “I made pancakes,” she says.

At that, Zack promptly abandons everything and rushes out the bedroom door. Tyler hears his frantic footsteps as he races to the kitchen.

His mother enters the room looking worried. “I had a change of heart,” she says, “if you really aren't up for school I won't make you.”

_ Now _ she says it? Internally Tyler rolls his eyes. He's up, he's dressed, his backpack is ready and waiting downstairs. As much as he'd like to dive back into bed and sleep, he knows he might as well face the music. 

Screwing up his face and taking his time filtering out his words he says, “It's fine. I'll go.”

His mother’s face brightens at this stutter-less sentence. She's hopeful. But no, the stutter hasn't gone away. Maybe it never will.

The obvious question Tyler might receive might be “Well, why don't you just focus on your words? Can't you just get rid of the stutter?”

He wishes it were that easy. He wishes he could just snap his fingers and reverse brain damage.

He thinks the worst part of this was losing his spot on the basketball team, however. Even as a star point guard, with state finals coming up they couldn't afford to have him go missing in actions for weeks. So he received that letter containing the formal boot off the team. Regretfully (always regretfully) signed by the coach, co-signed by the team captain. They couldn't even face him in person. They snail-mailed the letter to him.

It only took one silver Honda to screw up his life. 

He sighs to himself and exits the bedroom followed by his mother once she realizes he's not going to say anything else. 

“Come on,” she says, filling in the gaps herself, “I'll give you a ride today.” That's rare since she's almost always late to work and always forces the children to ride or walk to school. Their dad has the same issue. A ride to school is rare.

Zack is pouring copious amounts of maple syrup onto a stack of pancakes. Tyler's stomach rumbles. “How come  _ he  _ gets a ride?” Zack complains, and his mother shoots him a look. 

“Because he was in a car accident and you weren’t,” Maddy says carelessly. Tyler sits down, accepts the plate she offers him. 

Zack shovels pancakes into his mouth. “Isn't he healed by now?”

“Yes,” Tyler's mother says, “but I think he deserves a ride. Your lack of empathy just shows me you don't deserve one, Zack. I'd suggest hurrying up and brushing your teeth. Get walking or riding, because you're going to be late.”

Sure enough, the digital microwave clock shows a time of seven. That leaves Zack only half an hour to walk a path that takes at least that time. Whereas a drive takes only ten minutes. Oh, the pain of living in a neighborhood with twists and turns and hills.

Tyler considers this a suitable punishment for his loudmouth brother. He bares his teeth at Zack and spears a pancake onto a fork. His mother doesn't notice, but Maddy does, and she grins at Tyler, flashing him a thumbs-up.

*

Tyler's phone has been dead for at least a week, so when he accepts the freshly charged device from his mother he's not surprised to see the messages piling up. He's got several texts, a couple of missed calls, dozens of notifications from his various apps. Because of the damage to his head, his doctor made it clear that Tyler was to be away from electronics. His mother went the extra mile and confiscated everything that Tyler had, hiding it away in her desk. An unnecessary measure, but he found he didn't care much. 

“Call me if you need anything,” she tells him as she pulls up in front of the school, and he nods even though he already has decided he won't. 

With ten minutes before the start of class, he has a couple of minutes. So he watches his mother's car pull away and unlocks his phone.

He decides to tackle messages first. 

He has sixty-two texts that have accumulated in the past week alone, from the friends his parents didn't permit him to see while he was hospitalized.

Josh Dun _ :  _ Dude are u okay?

Josh Dun: Are u like dead?

Josh Dun: Tyler, I miss you man.

Josh Dun: Heard what happened, please respond to let me know you're okay. 

Josh Dun: your mom wouldn't let me see you, but Brendon says he snuck into your wing at one point and that you're okay. I hope he isn't lying you know how he is. 

He checks all the texts to remove the notifications, but doesn't reply to any. He has some from Brendon, too, but since he’ll see both Brendon and Josh at school today he simply ignores their texts and shoves his phone in his pocket. 

The bell rings as he makes his way to AP World History. 

He feels every eye on him as he stares at the floor, purposefully avoiding eye contact and gripping his backpack so hard his knuckles turn white. It seems cliché, but voices actually drop as he makes his way to the front of the classroom and drops into his assigned seat. They whisper. They gossip.

He wants to sink into the floor and disappear. 

The AP History Teacher, Mr. Brenner, rises from his desk and smiles at the class. “Good morning! Everyone have a nice weekend?”

There's a collection of murmurs of assent, a chorus of yesses. The typical response to that teacher question. 

Mr. Brenner checks his attendance sheet. “Okay, you all know the drill. I'll take attendance and then you can put your homework in the bin. Alyssa?”

“Here,” Alyssa says, from somewhere in the back of the classroom.

“Ben?”

“‘Sup.”

Attendance carries on until it reaches the T, and Tyler thinks he might pass out from nerves. 

Clearly Mr. Brenner hasn't seen him and doesn't expect him back, because he calls out “Tyler Joseph?”, takes a perfunctory look around the classroom (completely missing Tyler, who sits directly in front of his desk), then immediately moves onto the next name.

A kid in the back, Pete, speaks up. “Hey, uh, Tyler's here,” he says.

Mr. Brenner looks around, then his eye falls on Tyler. He breaks into a wide grin. “Tyler, how great to have you back,” he says cheerfully. “Heard you got into an accident of some sort. Great to see you're doing better.”

A short nod from Tyler will have to suffice, so that's what he does. Luckily Mr. Brenner doesn't think it's rude. Instead he seems to notice the attention bothers Tyler, so he carries on with attendance. When he reaches the end of the sheet, he looks up again. “Has anyone seen Brendon today?” he asks, frowning. 

Pete speaks up again. “Probably playing hooky,” he says, much to the amusement of Dallon next to him, who snickers. 

Mr. Brenner sighs. “Guess that's an ‘absent,’” he says, making a note on his attendance sheet. 

The door bursts open right as he crosses out Brandon’s name, and Brendon himself hurries in, bag over his shoulder. “Shit,” he says, “sorry I'm late.”

“Language,” Mr. Brenner warns, but he's smiling. Everyone is used to Brendon by now, who's broken almost every school rule, been in detention more than he's been in class, but is the nicest and most cheerful person you'll ever meet. The truth of that is proved when Brendon beams at Mr. Brenner.

“Sorry, Teach,” he says, “Overslept.”

“Your candor is admirable as always, Brendon. Now please have a seat.”

Brendon, who usually sits with Tyler in History, makes his way over to the front, then stops dead. “Tyler Joseph!” he shouts, rushing forward and tackling his friend in a hug that almost has him spilling out of his seat and onto the floor.

The class erupts into laughter at this behavior, but it's not a mean laughter. Even Mr. Brenner joins in, and Tyler anxiously tries to shove Brendon off of him.

Brendon moves away willingly, holding Tyler at shoulder length. “ _ Dude,” _ he exclaims, “I thought you were dead! Okay, not really, but your parents were jerks and wouldn't let me see you. Oh, man, I have so much to tell you. But you tell me! How are you doing? Are you okay? Should you be back at school so soon? I mean, I knows it's been weeks, but-”

“Okay, Inquisition Patrol,” Mr. Brenner interrupts. “Let's leave Tyler be, okay? You guys can talk at lunch.” He clears his throat, back to business. “Right, everyone get your homework out and put it in the bin. Dallon, please take this attendance sheet down to the office.”

Brendon sits next to Tyler and leans in. “Josh is dying to see you,” he whispers. “He can't wait.”

Tyler can't wait, either. 


	2. łł

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol I have an ear infection from the swimming pool, nice

On the way to choir, Brendon finally stops talking enough to notice that Tyler is not responding to any of his jibes or stories. So, worried, he pulls Tyler aside. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Are you really okay?” He looks Tyler over quickly. 

Tyler narrows his eyes, and because he doesn't want to seem like an antisocial asshole, he works to enunciate a response. “Yes, I'm just tired,” he says, then cheers when he manages to avoid the stupid stutter. 

Brendon seems to accept that answer. He shrugs. “Whatever,” he says. Then he brightens visibly. “Oh my God, wait till you hear what happened between me and Dallon earlier. So, during lunch he came over to sit with me and Josh, right-”

Tyler begins to tune him out. Not out of any rudeness, but because he really  _ is _ tired and not up for talking. Jesus, but focusing on not sounding like an idiot does take some effort, especially since he can't really help it. Unless he really concentrates he's bound to slip up.

Of course people in the hallways stare at him. He's not the most popular kid, but he's not exactly a nonentity. Brendon already filled him in on a couple of rumors during History when Mr. Brenner wasn't looking. 

“Dude,” Brendon had whispered, “some kid started a rumor that you were, like, actually dead. Body six feet underground and all that shit. The teachers didn't believe it, but the other gullible idiots did. And you know Jenna and how she hates Debby? She genuinely thought Debby was the perpetrator. It was pretty funny, actually.”

So, yes. He's not the most popular kid, but he's definitely not a nonentity. Him being gone for weeks definitely did not go under the radar.

He sighs miserably and tries to shuffle through the halls as fast as possible, clutching his backpack like a shield to ward off the unwanted attention.

The choir room is already bustling with activity when Tyler and Brendon arrive. As per usual kids have formed their little cliques and now warm up their vocal cords. Brendon cranes his neck and grabs Tyler, pulling him towards the back of the risers. “Hey, Jenna and Debby are here.” Then he lowers his voice and mutters, “As you obviously know, they don't really get along. So be careful.”

He’ll be careful. If the crash has taught him anything, it's to be extremely careful, because any moment might be your last. A sentiment that probably applies to the whole Debby/Jenna situation, given what Brendon has told him so far. 

Jenna sees him first and gasps. Then she's making a beeline towards him and latching onto him, hands wrapping around his skinny frame and crushing the air right out of his body. “Tyler!” she screams. “You didn't tell us you were getting out of the hospital!” Then she pushes him back to glare at him. “And you didn't answer any of my texts,” she accuses.

Debby waits until Jenna moves away to hug Tyler. Though virtually new to the friend group they've shared since fourth grade, Debby still genuinely cares about Tyler, was worried for him.

“I heard it was a car crash,” she whispers to him as she hugs him. 

Tyler doesn't dignify that with a response, but he does nod his head ever so slightly in confirmation.

“Damn, Ty. I'm so glad you're okay.”

Brendon interjects and hands Tyler his music folder. “You missed nothing,” he says. “You know this class moves at the pace of a snail. Literally no new music. Just preparing for the concert.”

Tyler nods again.

Jenna frowns. “Wow, you're quiet,” she jokes, and Tyler has to bite his tongue to prevent a response from slipping out. Mentally, he chides himself.  _ Filter it first, or you're screwed. _

“I guess,” Tyler says, monotone.

Brendon digs Jenna in the ribs. “He's on his period,” he stage-whispers, much to the amusement of Debby. 

Jenna slaps his arm away. “Do that again and you're toast, Forehead Boy.”

“ _ Don't  _ call me that! I told you not to!”

“Then don't fucking hit me,” Jenna snarls. 

Brendon rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you're temperamental.”

Tyler tunes out their squabbling and focuses on the front of the classroom. Where is their teacher? Is he absent? 

The question solves itself a minute later as another man sweeps into the room, shutting the door behind him and clapping his hands loudly. It's not Mr. Way, their usual choir teacher. It's a balding man with a chin strap and a pinstripe suit. When he turns his head Tyler sees about ten piercings in one ear.

“Settle down, class!” he roars. “I am Mr. Green, and I am your substitute teacher. First and foremost, are there any assigned places? If so, get in those now.”

Of course the class takes advantage of the fact that Mr. Way is absent. They immediately go and sit with their friends. Tyler makes no move to get up from his chair, and neither does Brendon. Jenna sits on Tyler's left, Debby sits on Brendon’s right.

Mr. Green gives them a knowing look and tweaks a piercing in his ear. Tyler wonders if he got them all at once, or over time. If it was the former, he wonders how high of a pain tolerance Mr. Green must have. His sister got her ears pierced and complained for a few solid days of the immense pain.

“Alright,” Mr. Green says, “I'll take your word for it that these are your seats. But if there's any issues, I'm going to move you without complaints. Okay?”

So here's a cool substitute! The class nods assent, giving each other grins. Maybe chorus, almost always a bore, will be fun today.

Alas, no. Mr. Green whips out a piece of paper. “I have here a note from your usual choir teacher,” he says. “I see you're working on a couple of songs.” 

A couple kids whose parents forced them to do choir grown. The rest sit in apprehension. The sub won't know what to do, right? He won't know how to sort altos and tenors and all that bullshit that comes along with teaching choir. 

Mr. Green rubs his nose. “However,” he says, “I don't know how to conduct or what to read off this sheet, or anything. So today will be a study hall instead. I'll leave a note for Mr. Way.”

“Yes!” Brendon says, pumping his fist. 

As the rest of the class begins to break up, Mr. Green waves his arms. “Hold up!” he hollers, “let me take attendance first.” 

Tyler lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Thank God he doesn't have to sing anything, because he had a moment of panic a second ago when he realized he had that stupid solo in  _ Praise His Holy Name _ , the Christmas number they'd been working on. No  _ way _ (a great pun if his teacher had been there) would he even attempt that. 

When Mr. Green hits  _ T _ , he calls out “Tyler Joseph?”

“Here,” Tyler calls out loudly, gripping the edges of his seat. And for those kids who haven't seen him at all today or were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice him coming into the choir room, their eyes go wide. 

Mr. Green doesn't know him. He doesn't ask questions. For that, Tyler is thankful. 

*

“Choir”, or rather “study hall” passes by at the pace of a snail for Tyler, who has nothing to do. Considering how he's been absent for weeks, one would assume he'd have quite a large amount of homework and missing assignments to make up, but no. Not a single one so far. Even Mr. Brenner had clapped him on the shoulder and told him to take it easy, they'd find alternative assignments for him later. Being a teacher who usually assigned homework every class and was stingy about late homework, everyone was shocked when he waived homework that day.

“Go home and enjoy life,” Mr. Brenner said to his students as they filed out of the classroom, pleasantly surprised. 

So being stuck in a virtual study hall for almost an hour and a half isn't fun for Tyler, who sits on his chair with his head on his hand, trying not to fall asleep.

Seriously, when you're used to more than twelve hours of sleep a day and then suddenly you're having to wake up at six-thirty in the morning, it's like being thrown in the deep end and not knowing how to swim.

An effect of Tyler being missing is obviously that his friends tend to act like he's not there; as if he were still in the hospital or confined to the house. They're not being mean, they're just not used to him being back. And honestly, that's okay with Tyler. He's not ready for the endless questions or the attention or, God forbid, any talking. Period. He just sits and listens to Brendon talk about Dallon while Jenna  _ pretends _ to listen and Debby, good student that she is, actually makes good use of their study hall rather than gossip as 90 percent of the class is doing.

“And get this, Dallon actually invited me to his house,” Brendon says, eyes gleaming. 

“Yes, because you're partners in science,” Jenna says tiredly, “and when you told him there was no way you'd let him in your house, he had no chance but to let you into his.”

Brendon slaps his chair. “No way,” he exclaims. “He's into me, Jen. He picked up my notebook for me when I dropped it.”

“He was being nice.”

“Yeah, but there were other people standing around, and he rushed to my side to do it!”

“Other people aren't as nice.”

Brendon rolls his eyes. “When will you accept the inevitable? He loves me! And I love him! And we're  _ totally _ going to the Winter Ball together.”

Jenna yawns. “Probably not in this life, Brendon.”

“I concur,” says Debby, hard at work on an English essay.

“Oh, and lower your voice,” Jenna says, looking meaningfully at a group of girls who are giggling at Brendon.

He's completely oblivious however as he scoots his chair directly to face Jenna, looking dead serious. “Let's make a wager,” he says boldly. 

Debby looks up, interested. “Oh?” Jenna says. “Let's hear it.”

“I go with Dallon to the Winter Ball, and you owe me fifty bucks.”

Jenna smiles. “Deal,” she says. Then she raises a finger. “ _ However _ . If you and Dallon don't go, you have to stand up in class and admit that Dallon doesn't love you. In front of everyone.” She sits back and crosses her arms, looking satisfied. 

“Wait,” Debby chimes in. “How are we going to know if he did it or not?”

“Duh, the gossip from everyone in that class. They'll spread the tale as far and wide as they can,” Jenna says.

“Yeah, but we still need the honest story from someone.” Her eyes land on Tyler. “You guys are both in science together,” she says.

_ Oh no. _

“Don't you dare,” Brendon warns, but Debby ignores him.

“Tyler, how about you tell us the entire story?” she says.

Tyler shakes his head, but Jenna pokes his arm playfully. “Come on, Ty,” she says, “it'll be funny.”

“Okay, I'll do it,” Brendon says loudly. “But if I win, you have to stand up in the cafeteria and admit Dallon  _ loves  _ me.”

Jenna shrugs. “Deal,” she says. “It'll never happen.”

Brendon points a finger. “Just wait, Blondie. It will happen.”

Tyler buries his face in his hands. One day back and already there's inner friendship drama? God, why does he still have friends?

Jenna and Debby share a twin look of smug satisfaction while Brendon seethes, and Tyler leans back into his chair, groaning. 

“You're fucking on,” Brendon declares. 

He and Jenna clasp hands and have a hearty shake.

And the deal is sealed.

*

As class ends, Brendon sidles up to Tyler as he stacks his chair in the corner. “Let me get that,” he says, extracting Tyler's folder from under his arm and moving to put it away. Then he comes back and leans up against the chair stack. “I expect you to help me out,” he says seriously. “We can't let them win.”

Tyler rolls his eyes. 

“Look, you can even be quiet the entire time, but I need you for moral support. In fact, it's better than you're quiet. Josh would just laugh at me, you know how he is.”

Tyler shrugs, palms facing the ceiling. “Okay,” he says simply, because isn't that what friends are for? Even though this is totally Brendon’s fault, Tyler will be there for him. For  _ moral support _ or whatever.

Brendon beams. “Knew I could count on you, buddy,” he says, and jabs Tyler in the ribs. 

As they exit the classroom, Brendon skipping way ahead, Tyler rubs his ribs because  _ ow. _

Jenna comes up behind him as he zips up his backpack, and claps him on the shoulders, thumbs running circles into the fabric of his hoodie. They've always been touchy with each other, definitely because preschool friendship lasting up till tenth grade deserves something else. “You really have been quiet,” she says. “And if there's anything I can, uh, do to help you out, let me know, okay?”

Sure, he wants to say. If you can fix up neurological damage, be my guest. 

Instead he nods, something he's been doing a lot of late. “Okay,” he says. That seems to be the one word he  _ can _ say without fucking up.

Her hands disappear from his shoulders. 

He picks up his bag and slings it on, pushing past people surveying him for injuries and out into the hallway.

*

School lunchrooms always bustle with activity. They're noisy, they're crowded, they're alive.

Tyler waits just outside for Brendon, who rushes up a few minutes later and shoves past Tyler, running headlong for the ever-growing lunch line. Completely ignoring the faithfully waiting Tyler, who groans, because this is an everyday thing, and goes to claim a table. 

Most of them are half-filled already, and bags take up seats that don't contain people. Even though the lunchroom monitors totally tell people not to save seats, everyone does it.

Saving seats, an action as old as time itself.

He spots an empty table and begins to head to it, when someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns, and is met with a tall boy with bright red hair. His heart skips a beat.

“Tyler,” Josh says, “good to see you.”

No hugs like Jenna or Debby or Brendon. Just solemnness, like one would expect from an Ancient Greek Stoic. 

“Good to see you, too,” Tyler says carefully. 

Josh smiles. “You're looking good for someone who was just in a car crash.” Tyler makes a show of examining his arms and legs.

Josh laughs, and God, did Tyler miss that laugh. He smiles back for the first time this afternoon. 

“Let's find a table,” Josh says, and Tyler grabs his arm, points at the empty table found minutes prior. “Oh.” Josh hurries over to claim it, plopping his own bag into the seat next to him and sitting. Tyler copies him. 

“Dude,” Josh says, “you've gotta tell me everything. I had no idea what went on when you were, you know…” He lets the sentence linger. 

“Sure,” Tyler says, “later.” He rubs his eyes. 

Josh takes the hint. “Cool,” he says, backing off.

Brendon rejoins their table, carrying a tray laden with food, and Josh slaps the table. “Jesus, Brendon, where does that all go?”

“Right in my stomach,” says Brendon, already staring to dig in.

Jenna makes her arrival, followed by Debby. As usual, they're arguing over something or other that nobody else cares about. This time it's dogs versus cats, Jenna vehemently protecting dogs while Debby argues in the name of cats.

Josh unpacks the lunch brought from home, unwrapping a sub and taking a huge bite.

Pete and Patrick, two of their little group, appear from behind, late as usual, and sit down. Both of them say hi to Tyler, ask him if he's okay, how's he doing so far? He does his best to answer their questions in two syllable words or less, but mostly keeps quiet until they realize he's not up for talking.

Josh notices his silence. He doesn't comment on it, but he shifts his chair over his slightly to bump shoulders.  _ I'm here for you,  _ that movement suggests,  _ I've got your back. _

Tyler looks down at his own lunch, but doesn't eat. He feels too queasy.

Thankfully, Josh doesn't mention what's on both of their minds. The unread texts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus I can't write to save my life
> 
> As always, thanks for reading <3
> 
> please leave comments below, they really help. :)

**Author's Note:**

> leave comments and suggestions <:)
> 
> I'm bad lmfao everything is so funny and my flight is delayed and my ear is killing me help


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